


Intimate

by Sherlocki_no_Kyojohn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Body Worship, Bottom Draco, HP: EWE, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Hogwarts, Top Harry, noise kink (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocki_no_Kyojohn/pseuds/Sherlocki_no_Kyojohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is an Auror<br/>Draco works with potions for the Ministry<br/>Draco has issues (obvs)<br/>Harry wants to help</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimate

“Harry,” he gasps, and the name feels strange on his tongue. He’s been Potter for so long. He pauses at the sound of his own name and Draco begins to panic. But then his grip on Draco’s hips tightens and he continues his wet progress down his neck at even more frenzied of a pace.

  
Draco is clutching his thick biceps, fingernails digging into the fabric of his dark burgundy Auror’s robes.

  
The faint acrid-ashen smell of Floo Powder still hangs in the room. They’ve come from the ministry. They were both working late, among the last stragglers waiting in separate lines at the long wall lined with grand, black marble fireplaces. Their eyes met and a mutual exhaustion producing a common need was communicated.

  
“Come over?” Potter mouthed. Draco turned his eyes forward, hesitated a beat, then gave a slight nod of his head. He watched Potter reach the Floo before him and disappear in a whirl of green flames.

  
As soon as he stepped out into the vaguely familiar flat he was pulled into an embrace, shoved against a wall before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness of late evening.

  
He doesn’t know how the name made it past his lips. It’s not as though that is what he calls the other in his head. He hasn’t said it the two other times they’ve done this. Draco is a fairly silent drunk.

  
But now, sober, the name came out and, despite the enthusiastic response it got him, he resolves not to do it again. Instead, he shuts his mouth, only to exhale harshly through his nose when teeth nip at the skin of his clavicle.

Potter shoves a thigh between Draco’s and he grinds down on it, relishing the sweet friction. He in turn slips a hand down between them and palms Potter’s crotch. His reaction is immediate and visceral; Potter groans loudly and, with no other warning, grasps Draco where his thighs meet his arse and _lifts_.

Despite his earlier resolution to remain silent, he lets out a rather undignified yelp.

“What the fuck, Potter?”

“I thought it was Harry now.”

Draco’s face heats and he tugs harshly at black hair. “I’ll leave,” he says. And, though this kind of threat is not out of place in their usual repartee, Potter seems to take it seriously. He nods and doesn’t make another move, though he also doesn’t set him back on his feet.

Draco finds he really doesn’t mind it; he was just surprised. The display of strength itself is nothing if not arousing.

He leans his head down for their lips to meet. Potter kisses him back. It’s softer now. Draco does not like it. He pulls on the hair again, more an insistence this time than punishment. Potter gets the message. He opens his mouth and Draco immediately shoves his tongue inside and they’re back to the comfortable rush.

With what seems to be little to no effort, Potter leaves the wall and carries Draco down a hallway. His legs instinctively clamp harder around Potter’s waist and he can almost feel the ridges of his abdomen pressed against his prick through the layers of fabric.

During neither of their previous encounters did they manage to reach full nudity, and, at the time, Draco didn’t care. But now he feels a burning impatiens to be completely rid of the fabric between them.

Again, he blames the sobriety.

Air is forced from his lungs when his back is slammed against a door.

“Sorry,” Potter mutters.

“Shut up,” he replies without opening his eyes. He casts a hand down to grope for the cold metal of a doorknob. He turns it with a sharp twist of his wrist and Potter all but stumbles into the bedroom.

Thankfully, it’s fairly small and the bed isn’t far from the door; at least, from what Draco can tell in the further reaches of his mind, where he isn’t concentrating on not allowing Potter’s mouth from his own for any longer than a few seconds, those being the intervals it takes to remove the irksome clothes.  
He is on his back, perpendicular across the bed. He didn’t realize how insistently he was riding Potter’s leg until the other stood to finally remove his trousers and pants.

Potter’s cock stands proud from its thick bush of jet black curls. Draco can’t help but stare a bit. Also the last times he did not get a good look at it. The first he didn’t even see it at all, only felt it against his own. It’s even thicker than he imagined.

He notices Potter’s smirk, as well as the fact that he doesn’t say anything as he normally might, apparently still taking Draco’s earlier threat to heart.

Draco sits up and moves until he is up against the solid wood of the headboard. Potter follows on his hands and knees, silently crawling towards him and Draco’s already racing heart spikes at the predatory image.

On a whim, he reaches forward and removes those stupid glasses (which, he is sure, have been the exact same ones since they were eleven-years-old).

Their eyes are locked. Draco has never been able to get over how unnaturally green the other’s are. It was what first drew his notice, back long before he could possibly begin to understand the innate tension of their relationship. He still doesn’t completely understand it, especially now with this recent complication.

Potter’s fingers curl over the band of his pants and trousers. Draco lifts his hips to allow him to pull them off. Potter breaks the gaze to watch the fabric reveal the smooth skin of his pale legs and there’s that slowness again. He covers Potter’s hands with his own and pushes until they’re completely off, leaves Potter to drop them to the floor while he attacks his stomach with a hungry mouth. He was right about the abs.

This time, Potter does not immediately return to speed with him. Instead, he sighs, and if Draco were to allow himself, he would call it one of resignation, perhaps. The realization makes him angry, which he uses to fuel the energy with which he goes to task. He drags his hands up the sides of Potter’s flexing thighs and his tongue through the dark trail of hair under his navel.

A warm hand is laid on his shoulder and another cups the base of his skull. Potter gently squeezes to get him to look up. He reluctantly complies.

Half of Potter’s face is slightly illuminated by the muggle street lamps several stories below.

Their eyes meet again and there is a softness in the other’s that he absolutely hates; he associates it with pity.

He now has two choices. He could make good on his earlier statement and leave, since Potter refuses to do this right. Or he could use his newly found tool.

He runs his tongue over his wet bottom lip and says, in the huskiest voice he can produce, “Harry.”

He knows it works from the way Potter's dilated eyes darken. He shoves him down into the mattress. Their mouths crash back together and Draco feels no small amount of gratification in the way their teeth click. He drags his nails down the skin of Potter’s back, feels how his whole body shudders against him in response.

They are both completely hard now. Potter’s hands are everywhere on his body, rubbing and squeezing and stroking Draco in his most sensitive places. Draco writhes at the attention, but does not allow any more sounds from his throat.

Potter, in contrast, seems to be even more vocal with the absence of alcohol. Not that he was ever particularly silent. When they were in school he always seemed to be shouting about something, especially the older they got. And now as adults he’s still usually shouting when Draco happens to see him around the ministry, barking orders at those under him or laughing along with his friends (again, the same ones since first year).

He was doing just that when they saw each other for the first time in over a year at the interdepartmental Christmas party. He was also downing copious amounts of Fire Whiskey. The rest was all downhill and now they’re here.

Yes, Potter is always loud and now is no exception. He swears and throws half of his body off the side of the bed to where his wand lies within the wrinkled pile of his robes. He fishes it out and is back on Draco before he can even register the cold air against his front in the absence of Potter’s considerable heat.

Lubricant pours from the tip into his waiting palm. Draco moves to get on his hands and knees, but Potter stops him with a careful hand at his hip.

“Wait. You were like that last time. Unless you want to,” he quickly adds. “It’s up to you.”

Draco looks up at him. Contrary to the hand, he really does seem to be giving him a choice. He decides that this is already taking too long and really he wouldn’t mind the variety so he acquiesces, but is also sure to cross his arms and turn his head to look across the dark room as if annoyed about it.

He suddenly turns back when he feels a slippery, calloused finger at his hole. His jaw drops, but he’s quick to instead suck his bottom lip between his teeth. He pushes his hips down and Potter pushes back, past the tight rim until it’s up to the knuckle.

Draco wastes no time in adjusting and (though it burns something terrible) begins moving against the finger. Potter is clearly hesitant, but his impatience must match Draco’s own and soon they have a steady rhythm.

They are up to two fingers and Potter’s about to add a third but Draco shakes his head and grabs his wrist. Potter ignores him and puts in the third anyways. When Draco glares, he chuckles and then gives him a bit of a shock by darting his tongue out to lap once at the roof of his mouth.

“I’ll go at the pace you want, but not at the risk of hurting you.”

Draco does not respond other than to retaliate by leaning forward and biting down on Potter’s earlobe. Potter moans as he coaxes Draco’s muscles to relax for him. He continues to nip and suck at his ear and the area surrounding it as a consistent reminder of the urgency of the situation.

Finally, Potter deems Draco ready (as if he doesn’t know his own body) and pulls his hand away. The way he fumbles to align the head of his cock at Draco’s entrance speaks to his impatience to be inside of him.

Draco, whose erection has flagged slightly at the stretch, is back to being fully aroused when Potter puts their chests flush against each other other as he fully seats himself inside.

This is the closest they have ever been. Draco feels an irrational spark of fear, which is, of course, ridiculous. He runs his hands up Potter’s tanned arms to his shoulders and squeezes, more to ground himself than anything else. There is nothing to run from and nowhere to run to. Potter moves as if to kiss him again so he smoothly turns his head to the side, half his face now covered by pillow. He moves one hand up to card through eternally mussed hair.

“Come on,” he mutters, moving his hips as best he can. Potter sucks in a breath at the feeling, but is otherwise uncharacteristically quiet as he begins to shallow thrust in and out. Whatever. Draco refuses to look up at him. Thankfully, he is saved from the temptation when Potter dips his head and mouths at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Soon he’s back to his grunting and panting and growling and whispering things like “so good” and “so hot” and “so long”. Normally Draco doesn’t care about his partner’s sounds, doesn’t pay enough attention to anything other than getting off to notice. But now he finds himself taking cues from Potter’s voice, as well as other quirks of his body, to adjust his own behavior.

Potter’s fingers twitch when something feels particularly good. He exhales like he’s been hit in the gut by a bludger when Draco clenches in just the right way. Potter is just as attentive in turn, though it must be more difficult with how reserved Draco is being.

Potter’s thrusts, Draco decides, are still not fast enough, not nearly as rough as the last times, so he turns his head and Potter immediately responds by lifting his own. Their gaze meets again.

“Come on,” he repeats in a whisper. Potter doesn't pause, his hips more than tripling their pace. Draco squeezes his eyes shut and begins fisting his own cock. It doesn’t take long after that for him to come. Potter follows shortly thereafter.

They lie there, breathing out of time. Potter is unbearably hot and heavy and he wants to tell him to get off, but he can’t seem to muster the energy.

Finally Potter takes one last deep breath, then sniffs as he raises to his forearms. Draco clenches his draw at the sensation of him pulling out. Potter reaches for his wand and rises to his knees. He waves it with another wordless spell and then everything is clean and dry (though still slightly sore and Draco knows it will be even worse in the morning).

Potter leans down to carefully place his wand on the nightstand and is, for the first time, the one avoiding eye contact.

Draco shuts his own and rolls onto his side. He curls up and rests his head on his elbow. He can feel those green monstrosities boring into him.

“Got something to say, Potter?” He twists slightly to look over his shoulder.

Potter opens his mouth as if he does, but then seems to think better of it. He shakes his head.

Draco turns back around. He knows what it is. The first time was in a cramped toilet stall; there was no choice but to summarily leave. That was the point. Potter’s couch is only a few steps from his fireplace. It simply made sense to leave then. But now, it’s that inexplicable lack of energy, nothing more.

It may not be what makes sense but it’s what is going to happen. Draco is going to stay, at least for a while. Potter could kick him out if he so chose, but Draco knows he won’t.

“Shut the blinds, will you,” he mumbles, but he’s asleep before Potter can even pick his wand back up.

 

Draco wakes up on his back. It’s pitch black in the bedroom and it takes a moment for him to remember where he is. It’s another before he realizes what it was that woke him. Warm fingertips are just barely ghosting up and down his left forearm, tracing the faded shapes in the skin.

He immediately sits up and jerks his arm out of reach.

“Don’t touch it,” he snaps. He can just make out Potter holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Potter sits up. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. Then, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Draco looks down at his own lap and is surprised to find he feels forgiving. Or at least, too tired to be angry. He pulls the sheet up from around his knees to cover himself despite the dark. He suspects Potter has been awake for a while. Maybe he didn’t even go to sleep.

“S’alright,” he says after a moment. “I don’t sleep that deeply in beds that aren’t mine.”

Potter doesn’t respond. He looks at him. He is regarding Draco with caution, as though afraid of spooking him. Like he’s a rabbit, or a toddler.

Draco is exhausted. He rubs his face, which does nothing.

“Look, Potter,” he begins. “We… We can't-.” Can’t what?

To his horror, Draco feels a familiar swelling at the base of his throat. What is this? Is this tears? Bloody tears for what? He needs to get out of here, out of this, immediately. But he is just so tired. What’s wrong with him? Maybe he should see a healer. But healers ask personal questions. Questions which will inevitably lead to the revelation that he, Draco Malfoy, has been sleeping with Harry Potter, _the_ Harry Potter. That won’t do, will it?

“Malfoy?” comes Potter’s concerned voice.

“What.”

Potter sighs. He combs his fingers through his hair, somehow leaving it messier than before. Draco unconsciously raises his hand to fix his own hair, which is undoubtedly a fright as well, especially in the back.

“Look, can we-.” He hesitates. “Will you please promise to not run away if I try to talk to you.”

Draco snorts. “No.”

To some facet of his relief, Potter laughs a little at that. Though it sounds almost as tired as he feels. Almost.

“Fine.”

It’s quiet for a bit and Draco’s lids only get heavier.

“Fine,” Potter repeats. “No promises, then. But can I at least ask that you not leave yet? As a favor.”

Draco almost retorts by asking what favors he owes him, but then memories break through the haze of his mind. Memories of constant fear and curses and fire.  He swallows and nods.

“Thank you.” He reaches out and puts a hand on Draco’s jaw. It’s not to hold him in place, simply to let him know his intent. Draco’s eyes have almost completely adjusted and he watches Potter lean forward to kiss him. He doesn’t move, either to pull away from or meet him. He simply lets it happen.

The kiss is nice in its depth and picks up in heat quickly enough for Draco’s liking. Potter moves until he’s back over Draco, who lets his body follow the other’s lead. Potter takes his wand from under his own pillow and Draco widens his legs. He supposes he could go another round.

But then, as always, Potter does the completely unexpected.

“ _Lumos Maxima_ ,” he mutters against Draco’s lips. A ball of bright light floats up above their heads and Draco shuts his eyes against the sudden radiance.

“What the fuck, Potter?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Draco does not have anything to say to that.

Strange shadows are being cast all over Potter’s face from the odd angle of the light. It’s proximity and the surrounding nothing seem to create a sphere of only them. Draco feels trapped. But he remembers his favor. He wills his body still. Instead, he concentrates on all the places where Potter’s skin is touching his (which, he finds, are not nearly as many as before).

Potter rests his forehead against Draco’s and closes his eyes.

“We can’t not talk about this, you know.”

“Of course we can. It’s what we’ve been doing.”

“I don’t want to not talk about it.”

“Well-”

Potter presses his lips closed with his own. “I _really_ don’t want to.” He kisses the corner of his mouth, then his chin, jaw, throat. “I refuse.”

“If-”

Potter lays his open mouth on top of Draco’s left nipple and then Draco is gasping and his back is arching. Potter sucks and lavs at it. He prods its stiff peak with the tip of his tongue, then swipes at it with a hard press of the flat.

“S’not healthy,” he says as he moves across Draco’s chest. He begins giving the other the same treatment.

Draco opens his mouth, determined to offer a true retort this time, but, to his abject horror, a high pitched whine escapes instead. Potter looks up at him, brows raised, and then the bugger has the nerve to grin.

“Shut u- ah!”

Potter has scraped his teeth over the reddened bud.

“Looks like my theory was right,” he says. The hands on Draco’s sides follow their owner’s progress down his torso.

Draco is panting. What the hell is this?

“What- what fucking theory?” he manages to grit out.

“That this would be the only way to get you to talk to me.”

Draco does not bother to correct him, tell him that he would have done that had he only invoked the favor. He also does not allow himself to consider what this is, what Potter’s doing right now, because it is not right. It’s too slow and has no conceivable endgame.

But then Potter is mouthing at the base of his sternum. He isn’t being forceful, but he’s also not allowing any room for protest.

Draco is having an inordinate amount of difficulty remaining silent. Before, it wasn’t that hard. He never really felt the need to make noise. But now, sounds of varying length and volume are escaping and his control is slipping with each whimper and groan.

The worst part is, Draco can’t understand it. Potter is doing nothing more than touching and kissing his body. It’s not unheard of. He hasn’t even reached his cock yet, and Draco has the sneaking suspicion that Potter doesn’t even intend to (because of course not, that would just make too much bloody sense, wouldn’t it?)

Now Potter’s reached his stomach. He’s simply skimming his lips over the skin there. A hand slides up the sheets to grasp Draco’s, clutched next to him in a futile attempt to hold in the noises.

He resists the compulsion to pull his hand out of reach. That would count as running away, wouldn’t it? Which would be against the favor.

Potter pulls the fingers down to meet his lips. He sucks on his fingertips, though those are not as sensitive. It is the inescapable fate of those doing research work on experimental potions to have eternally singed nerve endings in their fingers.

Despite this, Draco still cannot seem to keep the pitiful whimpering in check.

His entire body is shaking. His skin is flushed and it seems the harder he tries to control his breathing, the more it insists on coming in irregular, embarrassing puffs.

Potter bites down on his thigh and he lets out a particularly loud moan. His other leg bends at the knee of its own accord. He seems to take this as an invitation and latches onto the sensitive skin of the inside.

At that, Draco makes a loud keen. He can’t take this. He’s not running away, but enough is enough. He unceremoniously pushes Potter’s face away and sits up.

“Enough. I’m sorry enough.” He can feel the sweat sliding down his back.

Potter backs off instantly. He sits with his hands on his knees and watches Draco catch his breath. The room is stifling.

Once his heart rate is finally back at a manageable level, he meets Potter’s eyes again.

“I’m not running away,” he assures him. “I’m not.”

“I know that,” he says. Something in his tone catches Draco’s attention. He carefully studies his expression and realizes that under all the other layers of lust and, maybe, concern, there is amusement. The fucker.

“What’s so funny?” he says through his teeth.

Potter’s brows raise. “Nothing. I- Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

It is silent again, which is suddenly more unbearable than the heat.

“What did you mean?”

“When?”

“When you said, about your ‘theory’ that doing, _that_ , would make me ‘talk to you’.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just noticed that stuff like that seemed to make you more… open. I guess.” His voice sounds honest, but one can never be sure.

“Well you were wrong, weren’t you. We still haven’t talked about anything.”

Potter chuckles and rubs the back of his head, the picture of charm. Draco can’t help the way his eyes scan the muscles moving under the magically illuminated skin.

“You’re right, of course. Sorry, guess I got a little carried away.”

And out of nowhere is the swelling again, painful for being ignored. He swallows and, against all of his instincts, nestles further against the headboard.

“Whatever.” He looks back at Potter who has resumed that cautious animal expression.

“Don’t worry, Potter, I told you. I am not going to ‘run away’. I honor my favors.”

Potter makes a curious expression at the word. “What? Is that what you-? No, I’m sorry, that was the wrong word to use. Don’t think of it like that. I really do think we should talk, but it doesn’t have to be now.” Then he adds, quieter, “You can leave if you want.”

Draco ignores the amendment. “What are you talking about, Potter? Of course that’s how I ‘think about it’.”

“No. Draco, you don’t owe me anything.”

His chest constricts painfully. Now he understands the reaction from earlier. He can’t decide if he likes it or not.

Definitely not.

But now Potter is still talking and he has to concentrate.  
“Oh god. Is that the only reason that you- Why we started…”  
“What? No! Of course not, Potter. How little do you think of me? I meant, it’s a favor to you that I’m not leaving now, in spite of this torturously awkward conversation you insist on having. I am a fully grown, consenting adult, I can do as I like.”

The panic dissipates only slightly from Potter’s face. “Still. There are no favors to be had between us, Draco.” His nose wrinkles. “At least not the _tradable_ kind. I’m serious.”

Draco looks away. The muscles of his left forearm flex.

“Of course there are,” he says to the darkness around them.

“No, Draco-.”

“Fine then, if I’m free to go.” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

Potter lets out a frustrated growl and drops his head to his hands. “Why do you always do this?”

“Do what, leave after a one-night-stand? It’s fairly standard procedure, Potter. I wouldn’t think a celebrity like yourself would be so unacquainted with the idea.”

“No, let your fear, or anxiety, or whatever it is, get the better of you, and let it get in the way. You’ve always done it and I could never figure it out, which didn’t matter, but now it does.”

Draco stands and now is almost entirely outside of the sphere’s influence.

“No it doesn’t. This is only our, what, second? Third time? We don’t know each other like that.”

Potter’s laughter is bitter. “We know each other, Draco.”

And damn him, he’s right. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Any of it.”

Potter wraps his fingers around the wrist hanging at Draco’s side.

“I’m stuck, Draco. I don’t want to scare you anymore than you are, for some reason, but I also know that, because of that, you’re going to need a push somewhere. You’ve gotta help me.”

Draco can ignore the dozens of implied insults in that ridiculous confession, as well as the assumption that Draco has ‘got’ to do anything. But one phrase stands out to him as unforgivable.

“‘For some reason’? What, in the name of Merlin’s moldy beard, can you possibly mean by ‘for some reason’?” Potter’s wide, baffled, _green_ eyes only serve to further enrage him. “There are so many, too many, reasons for me to be more than a little jumpy about you. And vice versa.

“We were _enemies_ , Potter, not just schoolboy rivals. Or did you forget about the whole Dark War thing? The one where you, literally, died.” That damn swelling. “Forget the fact that we come from completely different backgrounds, bloodlines.” Potter opens his mouth to protest that but Draco beats him to it. “And the fact that that didn’t even cross your mind only proves my point.

“And then we hadn’t seen each other in so long and we jumped straight into this,” Draco gestures to the general atmosphere of the room, and its heat and stench of sex.

He can feel his desperation mounting. “And we, just, shouldn’t….Harry, we really shouldn’t.”

Potter stares at him and he chooses to focus on the faint ‘z’ scar high above his right eye.

Then Potter is pulling his wrist (which he all but forgot was being held) and pressing a very pointed kiss to the brand. Draco is too shocked to respond. Potter then pulls some more, and suddenly he’s in his lap. One of Potter’s arms is around his waist and another comes up to cup his cheek.

Draco blinks.

“Look. Believe me or don’t, but I don’t care about any of that. I mean, I do, but not in any way that would cause me to hesitate to, continue, this with you. None of that mess is _you_ ; it never was. And there is nothing about you, Draco Malfoy, that would cause me to be embarrassed or ashamed about introducing you to my friends. Or not. Whatever you want. And I’m not saying your concerns are invalid or that you shouldn’t be nervous. Hell, I’m nervous too, of course I am. I’m fucking Draco bloody Malfoy.”

Draco can’t help but let out a loud laugh at that. He shoves at Potter’s face, who only responds with a wide smile and a kiss on his palm.

“I guess all I’m saying is, it’s possible. And there. We’re done.” Potter’s hands drop to rest loosely at Draco’s sides. Draco scowls in confusion.

“Done with what?”

“That ‘tortuously awkward’ conversation. That’s all I wanted. Everything out in the open, no hippogriff in the room.”

Draco groans and drops his head to Potter’s shoulder.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t just state all the facts of a problem and call it solved.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a start.”

Draco closes his eyes.

“Stupid Gryffindor,” he mutters, and then he blushes because he knows they both heard the underlying fondness. Potter only laughs. He slowly raises his hands to Potter’s scapula.

“This isn’t fixed,” he warns. “Not by a long shot.”

“I know,’ he replies, and the hope in that familiar voice worms its way into the swelling, increasing the pressure while simultaneously making Draco feel lighter somewhere inside.

Draco turns his head plants a soft kiss behind Harry’s ear.

“And don’t think you’re going to always get away with all of that slow shit. I am not that vocal in bed, that was your fault.” Draco can feel the pride radiating off him in waves.

“But you’re just so pretty. I like taking time to appreciate.”

Draco looks at him and sneers. “Get your ugly mug away from me.”

He pushes his face again and Harry laughs, falling back to the bed and Draco, for now, allows himself to be pulled on top of his solid body.

**Author's Note:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again: Body Worship = My Jam
> 
> Also, I usually try to be at least semi-organized with my tags, but oh well. Ain't that just the way.
> 
> Special thanks to my awesome Beta/Fanager/Roommate


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